


Cinderella

by Aza (sazandorable)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bath Sex (sorta), Bubble Bath, Canon Asexual Character, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, Foot Massage, Intimacy, M/M, Masturbation while watched, Non-Sexual Intimacy, PWP without Porn, SORTA-SEXUAL INTIMACY??, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Yet More JM House Bath Content, happy honeymoon anniversary boys, immediately post-MAG180, mention of non-consensual voyeurism (ie Elias creeping on them), no sexual contact sex, shade of ace: low libido vanilla kinky and specific boundaries re: touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/pseuds/Aza
Summary: So, that bath, and also some cute and lovin' foot fetish.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 20
Kudos: 92





	Cinderella

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cassidy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassidy/gifts).



Obviously, there’s a great many things they’ll have to address and deal with, and about eight different red flags setting off alarm bells in Martin’s mind. But there’s no rush. They do _not_ have _all the time in the world_ when people are suffering all the while, but… they can take a break. Recuperate, rest, and be in best form to face and take on their disquietingly welcoming hosts later.

So, for now, bubble bath.

They had a shower before, of course. The equivalent of three or four showers, thereabouts. Martin’s weary bones _are_ enjoying the warm soak, but this is solely and entirely an unnecessary indulgence, even discounting the three different scented and sparkling products they’ve sprinkled in.

He hasn’t had a bath in so long. His shitty Stockwell flat just had a nearly-functional shower, so ever since his mum sold the house, he only really remembers that one well-off Grindr hookup who let Martin stay over and use his tub. It was okay. This one, though, is a gigantic thing, big enough to fit the two of them comfortably, porcelain and claw-footed and all, with two separate faucets gleaming a pretty copper colour. Might even be a genuine antique, the sort of thing that Martin would have panicked about even touching, before; though in this case, it is reassuring that Mister Salesa did promise, with a hearty laughter, that it had come with the house and not from any cargo of his.

Martin shifts a little to recline luxuriously in the large, perfect curve of his end of the tub. His skin is shimmering (there was some sort of oil?).

Jon started out with his head resting on the rim, opposite from him, but he closed his eyes almost immediately and has been steadily slinking down since, as if falling into sleep; currently he has water up to the tip of his chin, and he doesn’t yet look alarmed. Martin is keeping an eye on him but also idly curious to see how long it’s going to take him to snap to awareness.

“I guess it’s not too weird that they still have running water, if there’s no one to cut it off,” Martin says instead. “But what happens if a drain clogs or something?”

Without opening his eyes, Jon smiles, slowly and beatific, and Martin knows what he’s going to say before he does: “I don’t know.”

Martin intends to snort; it comes out as a soft chuckle instead. He curls a hand around Jon’s gangly hairy leg, that’s floating between his own thigh and the side of the tub, and gives a firm, fond rub up his shin.

Jon sinks another half an inch into the foamy water. “I don’t know how plumbing issues are handled in the apocalypse,” he muses, dreamily, his bottom lip brushing the water and sending ripples. He’s going to swallow soap if he keeps that up. “Or out of it, I suppose. I’m not sure. I’m _not sure!_ ” He lets out a blissful sigh.

He’s too far away to kiss, so Martin scratches his calf again, affectionately. Jon pretends to protest, pulling his leg back, so Martin grabs his ankle, to which Jon responds with a light-hearted flick of his foot, splashing soapy water into Martin’s eyes, and thus starts the silliest of wars. The water sloshes around the tub, but the sounds seem muted, their chortles and giggles strangely quiet, as though absorbed by the foam. With its odd acoustics and steamed-up windows, the room itself feels like a bubble of its own. Isolated ( _together_ ), no one watching them, for the first time in forever. The rest of this world outside this room is unknown, and for now, Martin doesn’t care; Jon’s heel is in his face and it needs tickling.

Jon squirms, laughing, and then squirms again, differently. Martin curls his fingers in, turning to running his nails down the sole of his foot, and Jon’s face twists but not in a grimace, his shoulders rise as he braces his arms against the sides of the tub, and Martin grins to himself.

“Mmm,” Jon says. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. His mouth falls open, though, in a soft tiny gasp, when Martin pushes his thumb back up the arch of his foot, pressing into the softened wrinkled skin.

Jon’s shoulders lower again, relaxing, and he lets his head gently fall back against the lip of the tub, his long throat exposed, scars and all. If he were within reach Martin wouldn’t think twice before kissing it, nibbling on the fragile abused skin, and something in his gut twists at the vulnerability of it all. In his grasp, Jon’s ankle trembles. It’s so skinny, all shifting tendons and angular bones. Martin strokes under the bump that sticks out; he doesn’t know the name of it. Maybe Jon does. Or maybe he doesn’t.

There is something primordial about this; the simple raw physicality of it, the symbolism of the gesture, something as crude as a foot, rough and calloused and bruised but tenderly rubbed with scented oil, bare and beloved. There is a mythical image somewhere, here, a poem to write about the pilgrim hero stopping for a rest, the martyr bathing, the helpless but devoted assistant scrubbing the dirt and ache from his tired feet. Martin thinks of hobbits and princesses. Jon is very much neither, but he does have the energy of both — wild, frenzied menace, fainting delicacy, fae quality. Jon doesn’t always seem like he really exists.

He is existing now, though, no doubt about that.

His foot flexes under Martin’s fingers, his ankle tenses, and he inhales again sharply and bites into his lower lip.

Martin allows himself to grin again. “Feeling good?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jon retorts, like a scolding. He might be blushing, though it’s hard to tell apart from the flush from the heat. “You menace.”

“Always such strong words!” Martin tuts, professoral. “Does that mean you want me to stop?”

His question is half-teasing, half-genuine, but Jon just flicks water into his face with his other foot in response and Martin lets himself laugh again, because it’s a lovely moment with no immediate danger or misery and hearing him laugh always makes Jon’s face go slack and softly smiling.

Jon sighs and tilts his head to the side, theatrically, as if looking away from this nonsense, but he wiggles his toes in offer and call for attention, so Martin sucks the big toe into his mouth.

Jon’s entire body jerks so hard that he almost kicks Martin in the chin again. Martin stabilises his foot with both hands and looks up in surprise to Jon’s scandalised wide eyes. “ _Martin!_ ”

Martin blinks. “What?”

Jon gapes like a fish out of water (ironically), puts his hands up to make a gesture of helpless and appalled shock, rendered significantly more dramatic by the cascade of bathwater he drags along. “Wha— M— What! Martin! What do you mean, what! That’s disgusting!”

Martin blinks again. “Why? It’s clean. I mean, I’m tasting some soap, but…”

“It’s my _foot!_ My hallux! In your mouth!”

“By far not the most disgusting thing humans do recreationally,” Martin deadpans.

Jon scoffs and huffs and balks and, notably, doesn’t move, and Martin pointedly opens his mouth wide and, without touching it with his lips, gently bites on the knuckle of his big toe. Jon’s foot shivers, and still doesn’t tug out from his grasp. Martin pulls back and looks up at him, eyebrows rising. He lets himself smile again, because Jon already knows full well he’s a little shit anyway, and indeed Jon gives him a half-hearted, narrowed-eyed glare.

“Well?”

“Gross,” says Jon, primly, and flexes all of his toes and doesn’t pull his foot back, and Martin smiles.

“Tell me when you want me to stop,” he says, just to be clear, even though Jon rolls his eyes before closing them again and resuming his endeavour of slowly sinking under the water.

Jon doesn’t tell him to stop.

Leisurely, Martin gently licks at the pads and nibbles on the tip of each toe, one by one. Sometimes he dips his tongue between them, and Jon’s leg shivers brutally each time, but he doesn’t do or say anything to stop it.

Martin returns to his big toe and pulls it into his mouth, fully. Jon’s leg trembles and shudders, his foot tenses and twitches, and his face twists until it slackens and his body loosens, as Martin, slowly, gently, sucks.

Even perfectly clean and with the faint tinge of soap, it tastes slightly salty. Martin suckles at it, in and out, in and out, lets his upper teeth scrape the skin on the way up, lets it pop out sometimes to take a little breath he doesn’t truly need. It makes wet, obscene sounds, and he can tell Jon’s breathing is getting faster and more irregular.

He opens up to give a long lick, from base to tip, and whispers gently: “You can do something about that, if you want.”

Jon lets out one of Martin’s favourite sounds in the universe, that little dazedly helpless breathless huff, not a scoff, not quite a snort. Martin has no way to know what it is that Jon feels when he makes it, of course, but to _Martin_ , it sounds like how he feels when Jon holds his hand or smiles at him with adoring eyes. Too-good-to-be-true astonishment, giddy disbelief in his luck, falling in love all over again.

There is a pause, which contains all of the unsaid: Martin is going down on his foot, yes, but genitals have gone untouched so far, they’ve never done anything of that sort and aren’t going to, Jon doesn’t, Martin hasn’t offered to do it himself and isn’t going to. It is a very short pause. Then Jon exhales: “ _That_ is definitely going to be dirty. Water will be disgusting.”

Martin presses his smile against Jon’s saliva-slick toe. “We can just have another shower.” Kisses it. “As you like, I’m just saying, don’t hold back on my account.”

Jon swallows, his Adam’s apple sharp under the taut skin of his too-thin throat, licks his lips. Eventually, he says, eyes still closed, like launching a message in a bottle into the ocean: “Don’t touch me.”

Martin straightens up, putting an inch between his mouth and Jon’s foot, to avoid his breath tickling it more. “I stop, then?”

“No, no. Just, not…” Jon’s left hand comes up just out of the water to gesture vaguely in the direction of his ankle; his right hand remains submerged, invisible under the foam of soapy bubbles. “Not above that.”

Martin rubs up the bridge of his foot, carefully, tenderly. “Okay.” He can’t stop smiling. Jon can’t see it — truly can’t, right now, in this house — but he can probably hear it, just like Martin can always picture Jon’s facial expressions just from hearing his voice. “All right.”

Jon takes a deep breath, and lowers himself another inch into the water, and this time Martin firmly holds in the enchanted laughter bubbling up in his chest.

He starts sucking again, gently, not too much, not too overwhelming, letting Jon choose his own pace to build up. He keeps his hands securely around Jon’s ankle and heel until Jon starts really writhing in the water and his leg twisting in earnest in Martin’s grip, and then he adds in some slow, firm rubbing and stroking, steadily helping him along.

Jon’s breathing picks up again, speeding up, and rising, not in volume but in pitch. His movements are causing little splashes, tiny, lazy waves that ripple across the tub to come lick Martin’s skin, gentle and warm, and currents of air in the steam. Martin isn’t going to touch him and that’s the only reason Jon is doing this, the only way he want this, but this is not something he’s doing _alone_ ; Martin is right there, sharing the water and the air they’re breathing, watching him, holding him, feeling him tense and strain and yield under his hands and mouth.

He’s never seen Jon come before. It’s mostly quiet, as fitting him; nothing earthshaking or groundbreaking, although the small keening sounds towards the end are really cute. Mostly Jon just stiffens all up and holds his breath, then slowly, finally, relaxes, and leans back, panting deeply for a minute. He _does_ eventually ingurgitate a mouthful of soapy water, and spits it out in a splutter, and Martin laughs quietly and plants an immensely fond kiss in the curl of his toes, which makes Jon moan tiredly.

In fact, Jon looks like he’s going to fall asleep on the spot. Which is also fitting and quite typical of him.

Martin gives him a minute or two, keeping up with the lowkey massaging, though his fingers are getting quite tired too. That’s fine, though; he’s not going to need them — he is feeling nicely tingly and warm all over, but just pleasantly aroused, nothing unbearable or worth breaking the moment just to get himself off.

Finally, he asks: “All right there?”

Jon makes the sound again. Quieter, drowsier, but definitely that sound. “Yes,” he drawls, “yes, Martin, I am _quite_ okay.”

“Hey, don’t ‘ _Yes, Martin_ ’ me like this wasn’t a big deal.”

Jon opens an eye, smiling. Martin gives his foot another peck as proxy. “You’re right. It was, and I’m all good. Thank you.”

“Okay. Good to know. Thank you.”

Which… brings a thought.

Jon notices. “What is it?”

Martin isn’t wincing, quite. He’s not sure whether he’s feeling the emotion that would warrant a wince. “Just… trying to decide if this is the best or worst scenario for this. You know. First time you feel up for something really sexual together is in _someone else’s house_ —” (That’s definitely a cringe from Jon.) “— but, on the other hand, well, if this place really is completely cancelling out the Eye, then at least you didn’t masturbate where Elias could be watching.”

Jon doesn’t react for a long few seconds, and then he reacts all at once, by completely losing it.

A minute or so into this meltdown, Jon has taken his foot back and is hugging himself protectively (though uselessly) and his reasoning has reached the point of, “oh my _God_ , he could have been watching us at the safehouse?”, and Martin is mostly managing not to chuckle too much. “He could have been watching when we were making out in bed?”

“Well, yeah?”

“ _You were aware of that?_ ” Jon raises his arms to the ceiling, revolted. “You were keeping that in mind the whole time?! And you _still_ did it?!”

“I wasn’t going _not_ to kiss you!”

“I mean! I’m glad you _did_ , just — urgh. How could you feel fine with that — the whole time, he could have… _Eurgh_ ,” he trails off, shaking his head with a disgusted tremor.

Martin shrugs. “I mean, we’d been living with that knowledge for over a year already? I’d pretty much made my peace with the fact that he could be watching at any time, including when I was having a wank or such.”

“ _You just went ahead and wanked off while knowing Elias could have been watching?!_ ”

Martin chuckles, helplessly enamored. “Jon, what was I going to do? Stop masturbating?”

“ _Yes?_ I would not masturbate while Elias or an eldritch all-seeing god could be watching!” He is the picture of pure offense for a few seconds, before turning to vague confusion: “Was that not an option? Why was that not an option?”

In the kindest way possible, Martin confirms: “It was not an option.”

“I will never get it,” Jon whines, petulantly flopping back against the wall of the tub, splashing water that is objectively-indeed-a-little-dirty-now absolutely everywhere, and Martin laughs, laughs, laughs, and joins their hands together on the porcelain lip of the tub.

“Yeah, I know. I love you.”

Eyes closed again, still scowling, Jon squeezes his hand. “I love you, and we are going to need that shower now.”


End file.
